


Bad Things

by michaely



Series: Girl's Got a Love Like Woe [2]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, Drama & Romance, Eliot Hampden professional dickwad at your service, F/M, Me: Hai guise! I wrote a sex scene featuring Warren! And it's not with Nathan!, No one literally no one:, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Older Woman/Younger Man, Post-Game(s), Pricefield is here but they are bit players, Reunions, Unrequited Love, no seriously Eliot is the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaely/pseuds/michaely
Summary: Even if you have love for someone, is it always the “right” thing to love them? When is your love a bad thing?Sequel to "Gone, and So Alone."
Relationships: Warren Graham/Sera Gearhardt
Series: Girl's Got a Love Like Woe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034628
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. You Come Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Veronica_Lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veronica_Lake/gifts).



> This is dedicated to Veronica_Lake. Through my correspondences with her over our respective artistic approaches and philosophies behind writing, I've been motivated to undertake a certain set of challenges. These include:
> 
> 1) Explore a non-traditional pairing. Admittedly, this one's not a problem for me. I've had my own private affection for this couple. I wrote the prequel before I even talked to Veronica, after all.  
> 2) Write a sex scene, which serves not only to titillate but also to establish the immensity of emotional stakes between our lovers. Time will only tell how explicit this actually gets, which is why the work for now retains a T rating.  
> 3) Write a happy ending, which properly rewards our characters and lends the ultimate meaning to the suffering they've had to undergo. At the same time, don't come off like a pandering hack.
> 
> Let's see how well all these turn out. Let me have a go.

[ **"Nothing's that bad if it feels good, so you come back like I knew you would."** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_UywfuYTvc)

**Nov 2019**

“I don’t understand why we have to do this,” Warren objects.

“I told you,” Chloe explains, “Your two best buds in LA are just trying to do something nice for your birthday.”

“I would’ve taken a Nintendo eShop gift card.”

“Oh, ye of little imagination.”

“No, me of huge social anxiety.”

“Warren, just try to relax,” Max assures him. “Enjoy your mimosa.”

“I ordered orange soda,” he grumbles.

“They don’t serve that here,” Chloe points out. “Haven’t you ever eaten at a restaurant that doesn’t have a kid’s menu?”

“And why a blind date?” Warren goes on.

“It’s how adults meet each other,” Chloe argues. “You think the love of your life is gonna come wandering into some Starcraft LAN party?”

“I’m not looking for the love of my life,” he states quite plainly.

“Then at least try to relieve some tension,” Chloe commands. “That Klingon death grip handshake you gave me could crush a diamond. I’m pretty sure the PSI down there is unacceptably high at this point.”

“Chloe, take it easy on him,” Max pleads.

“He’s always complaining,” Chloe mutters.

“Hey.” Max turns to Warren again. “We asked you here because we’re sure you’re gonna like her.”

Warren can’t completely shake his cynicism, but something about Max’s frank nature always could calm him.

* * *

**Earlier that year, summer**

Left foot. Cane. Right foot.

Left foot. Cane. Right foot.

It’s the same pattern he’d been following for the last several years. Still, something feels not quite right, off-sync somehow. It’s probably why the aches in his shoulder keeps coming back. Ever since being able to get out of the wheelchair, his right leg had always been weaker than his left. His right arm was having to compensate for supporting that side of his body. Doctors hadn’t been able to arrive at a definitive conclusion to explain the irregular rate of nerve regeneration. Instead, they insisted he should feel fortunate for being able to walk at all. One does not simply walk away after Two Whales Diner collapses on top of him. Well, it certainly hasn’t been so simple for him.

Despite the balmy breeze on this San Francisco summer evening, his physical exertion has caused sweat to start collecting across his brow. It’s moments like these when he feels he made the right choice in abandoning the shaggy wings hairstyle from his teen years. These days he favored an undercut style, nice and tidy on the sides and back, with the longer top swept back and over to the side.

He looks up at the stretch of hill he still has left to climb. There never seems to be enough parking in this part of town, so he had to leave his rickety Ford Torino (at this point being held together with duct tape and positive thinking) a fair distance away from his destination. The glowing lights advertising the Chow-Foo Restaurant are still a ways off.

* * *

He pushes open the front entrance and is smacked in the face with the cacophony of diners making merriment over orders of lo mein and mapo tofu. The wait staff weaves through the tight alleys between tables, all the while balancing impossible structures of stacked plates and glasses and chopsticks. Warren walks up to the hostess stand, which is helmed by an elderly woman in Coke-bottle glasses and wearing far too much eye shadow in the hue of robin’s egg blue.

“Sorry, kid,” the woman addresses him, “Full house tonight.”

Max had already told him about this lady, Ai Sasakibara, owner of the establishment. The restaurant is a family business, which she’s been managing since the passing of her husband. Warren was initially surprised to hear of a Japanese family operating a Chinese restaurant, but then again, he thought back on Brooke. Her family’s place served dim sum on Sunday mornings, while bulgogi was the top seller for lunch during the work week, and weekend evenings featured yakitori and ice-cold Kirin lagers. “You go with the clientele,” Mrs. Scott had always said.

“No, actually,” Warren clarifies, “I’m here to see Max and Chloe.”

“Ah!” Mrs. Sasakibara exclaims, “The lady lovers.” She juts out her thumb at the dimly lit stairwell behind her. “Up and to the left, Unit 4.”

And so Warren makes the trek up the creaky stairwell, which is only wide enough to allow traversal in single file. He clutches his cane in one hand and the railing in the other. He reaches the top and glances to his left. Surely enough there’s Unit 4. He steps up to the threshold and gives a few firm knocks with his left fist.

Not long thereafter does Max Caulfield greet him, with her sparkly blue eyes and endearing smattering of freckles just as he remembered her. Her auburn hair has grown out a bit more in the bangs and down the back, though.

“Warren! So glad you made it safe.” Max throws her arms up around his neck in a cordial embrace. “I told you to call when you were close. We could’ve helped you with your bag.”

“I’m a cripple, not a pussy,” he comments with a sly grin.

Chloe Price then rushes into the scene. “Aha! The Graham Cracker is here!” She teasingly tussles his hair.

“Hey, watch it,” Warren protests. “Pomade’s not cheap, you know.”

“Ooh, look at Mr. Queer Eye getting all touchy about personal appearances,” Chloe prods him.

“I do love what you’ve done with your hair too,” says Warren, referring to Chloe’s lob cut in her natural shade of strawberry blonde.

“Oh please.” Chloe rolls her eyes. “This is just because of stupid office dress code. Same reason I’m wearing long sleeves in the dead of summer.” Chloe gestures to her prolific tattoo of flowers and butterflies.

“But all of it’s finally paying off,” Max states.

“Congrats on getting that full-time offer at the other office,” Warren says to Chloe.

Chloe sighs in contentment. “Yeah dude, Santa Monica’s gonna be hella nice. New apartment’s gotta be an upgrade over this, don’t you think?”

Warren surveys his surroundings, and yeah, the place has seen better days. And those better days probably took place during the Showa period. The shag carpet is crying out for a strong shampooing, and the farm animal themed wallpaper is starting to peel in a few key spots. Max and Chloe hadn’t helped their case with their choice of furniture, which must’ve been procured through Goodwill Hunting, Matt Damon’s preferred method of interior décor.

“Thanks again for agreeing to be house sitter until the movers show up,” Max addresses Warren in gratitude. “I thought we were toast when they told us about the delay.”

“You’re totally saving our asses,” Chloe concurs. “The lease on the new place has to be signed tomorrow if we’re gonna keep it, so no way we could wait for the moving company to show up.”

“No, thank you for letting me crash here until I get my demo recorded,” Warren responds. “I’m already scrambling to put together money for some studio time, impossible for me to swing a hotel.”

“ _Mi casa es su casa_ ,” says Chloe, motioning further toward the interior. Warren steps inside and places his duffel on the sofa, its heathered weave fabric a pale yellow resembling Chablis wine. The cushions bear scratch marks which suggest the previous owner having been negligent about trimming the claws of the pet cat.

“You hungry?” Max asks Warren.

“Sure, last thing I had to eat was half a 3 Musketeers I found in my glove compartment.”

Another knock comes upon the door.

“Great timing,” Chloe remarks.

She opens the door to find a portly young Japanese male with aviator glasses and long black hair worn up in a topknot. On the right breast of his T-shirt from Metallica’s Master of Puppets Tour in Europe is a nametag reading “Toru.” He doesn’t look up from his phone as he hands a large paper bag to Chloe.

“It’s 40,” Toru instructs plainly.

Chloe reaches into the back pocket of her tattered jeans and removes two crumpled up twenty dollar bills. She places the cash into the waiting hand of Toru.

Toru breaks eye contact from his game of Candy Crush to inspect the money. “Where’s my tip?” He inquires of Chloe.

“What tip? You only climbed a flight of stairs. Get lost!” Chloe shouts to him.

“ _Sugoi urusai ne,_ ” Toru mumbles under his breath.

Chloe calls out to him as he walks back down to the restaurant. “Hey, I’m fluent too, asshole!” She shuts the door with a slam.

“Yeah,” Max says to Warren, “It’ll be nice to get out of here.”

* * *

After sharing a dinner of fried rice and spicy braised tilapia, Max and Chloe decide to retire to bed, on account of having to wake up early for their drive tomorrow. Warren feels beat from his own travels from the day, so he kicks back onto the heathered weave sofa. He usually liked reading before going to sleep, but he had left his paperback of Kafka on the Shore in his car. Noticing a folded copy of the day’s San Francisco Chronicle (the rubber band still wrapped around it) on the coffee table, he settles for that instead. He thumbs through a few pages and finds the typical material. A new piece of housing legislation is coming up for a vote at the Board of Supervisors. Some construction is about to start up on 19th Avenue. A noteworthy civil servant been appointed as Director of the Department on the Status of Women.

And then there’s this unassuming human interest article. Tucked way in the corner of the back pages. A fluff piece if there ever was one. It’s something that was probably written about a month ago and saved until there was space to fill on a slow day. The story is about a woman living down south in Pacifica. She was giving piano lessons to young girls in her neighborhood, spoke about the importance of fostering creativity and artistic drive in the next generation of creators and inventors. There’s a photo of her posing, rather dignified, in front of her Yamaha baby grand piano.

He immediately recognizes the tattoo sleeve.

* * *

It took some asking around, but Warren knocked on several doors until he found someone who exclaimed to him, “Ah yes, that’s Sera! My niece takes lessons with her, loves her to pieces.”

He drives a few blocks over to a cul-de-sac near the base of Montara Mountain. He scopes out the house numbers until he arrives at 1625. He needs a moment to marvel at the grand scope of this towering architectural marvel. It’s three stories tall and judging by how wide it sprawls, probably contains about five bedrooms. A three-car garage sits at the base, but since the house is built on considerably sloped land, a winding path of stairs leads up to the main entrance.

He groans at the prospect of more climbing. Oh well, he thinks to himself, he’s already come this far. He drags his gimpy leg up the stairs, his cane in one hand and a modest bouquet (no lilies this time) in the other hand. After taking a resolute breath he rings the doorbell, which sounds with a merry chirp. As he waits for a response, the seconds tick by in agonizing fashion.

His heart practically escapes out his throat as he hears the click of the front lock. The door swings open.

And there she is.

Her dark gray eyes widen immensely at the sight of him. The silky brown and platinum blond strands of her hair sway ever so gently in the calming breeze, but otherwise she stands motionless, the realization having not quite hit her just yet. Instead of her usual sundress, she’s wearing a simple and casual white scoop neck sleeveless top and slim fit khaki capris.

He wants badly to just reach out and touch her, finally touch her again after all these years, but he refrains, worried that she might shatter if he interferes with her comprehension of him.

She blinks a few times, which seems to shake her from her trance. In a flash, she bounds towards him, wrapping both arms around his shoulders. He’s nearly knocked back from the momentum, and the bouquet almost gets crushed between their two bodies. Upon hearing a delighted giggle spring up from her, a wide grin overtakes his face, and he finds it in himself to hug her around the waist.

She releases her hold to get a look at him again. She’s beaming a radiant smile. He remembers his offering and holds out the flowers. She gasps, as she hadn’t quite noticed them before, then accepts the gift with sincere gratitude.

“Honey?” Another voice calls out from lower down the stairs.

Warren turns to see a tall middle-aged man, who studies the both of them with piercing green eyes. His dark, wavy hair is trimmed tight and neat. His square jaw and broad shoulders provide a gravitas greater than his overall average physique would offer.

“Who’s our guest?” The man asks Sera. He speaks in a voice that’s got a gravelly quality but still soft enough in pitch to be soothing.

Sera clears her throat. “This...” She tries her best to hold the bouquet down and behind her leg. “This is Warren Graham. He’s...” She peers back at Warren, who swallows hard in anticipation of how Sera would characterize her relationship with him. “He was a friend of Rachel’s.”

Warren’s stomach wrenches itself into a knot. Everything he had been through with her felt minimalized in that one statement.

“Ah.” The man nods as he climbs up the steps to stand next to Sera.

“Warren,” Sera speaks up, “This is Ben Shaibel. My fiancé.”

Warren feels like slapping himself just now. He’d failed to notice the hulking diamond ring Sera had been wearing. That jewel probably encapsulated the whole of his life savings ten times over. Wishful thinking blinds even the wisest man. He should’ve also realized this house is way too huge for Sera to have been living there alone.

“You’re from Arcadia Bay?” Ben asks of Warren. Ben didn’t address him in a distrustful or accusatory tone, as if it were entirely outside the realm of possibility for this mere boy, in his faded Smiths T-shirt which had gone through too many improper wash cycles, to be of threat to him.

“Y-yes,” Warren stammers.

“Well,” Ben motions towards the open front door. “A long journey deserves a respite at the end. We’re just about to start dinner. It’ll be no problem for me to throw another piece of swordfish on the grill.”

“No, I--” Warren shakes his head, can’t quiet meet eyes with the older man. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ben insists. He places a hand on Warren’s shoulder. “Tell you what, you try Sera’s tiramisu, you won’t be able to say no.”

* * *

Seated on opposite sides of the table, Ben and Warren wait as Sera serves the plates of food. Each swordfish steak is accompanied by wild rice mushroom pilaf and a salad of mustard greens, pear, and parmesan.

“It looks great, babe,” Ben praises her.

She grins subtly back at him.

Ben pours out a couple glasses of Chardonnay for himself and Sera. “Any wine, Warren?”

“No thanks. I’m driving back.”

“Very responsible. Good on you.”

Warren starts cutting into his fish. He’s unable to remove his gaze from Sera, who frustratingly doesn’t look back at him. Feeling slightly guilty to be ogling the fiancé of the guy who just invited him to dinner, Warren opts to make small talk. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Shaibel?”

“I’m a pediatrician.”

“Sorry. Dr. Shaibel, I mean.”

“No, forget the formalities. It’s Ben to you.”

“OK. Thanks.” Warren takes a bite of his food. He’s sure it must be delicious, but his attention settles back on Sera, who simply continues to eat her salad in dainty bites. Try to be polite, Warren reminds himself. “It’s good work that you’re doing,” he says to Ben. “Being able to help people.”

“Oh, I feel very thankful to have the opportunity. It’s a blessing to be able to care for a great deal of children. I was always so busy studying, then internship, residency, all that. Never had time to meet the right woman and have kids of my own.” Ben reaches out and places his hand atop Sera’s. “Then again, maybe our luck will change soon.” He smiles at her. It’s noticeably genuine, the affection he feels for her. It’s honest, the sense of hope he feels that he can have a family with this woman he clearly adores.

Warren forces down a lump in his throat.

Sera tries her best to return his sentiment with a modest grin. “Um...” She slips her hand away from his. “This needs some more salt.” She points to her rice. “Excuse me.”

Sera gets up from her seat and walks back to the kitchen.

* * *

After dinner and dessert (Warren had to admit, Sera’s tiramisu was indeed quite good), Ben goes to his study to follow up on some patient notes from earlier in the day. Warren hands the salad bowl to Sera, who’s rinsing some other dishes in the sink.

“Thanks.” It’s the first thing she’s said to him since they came inside.

Warren figures he could try to break the ice with some more small talk. “How’d you two meet?”

“Oh.” She still doesn’t look back at him. “After Rachel, I joined this bereavement support group. Ben was volunteering back then. His father was a firefighter in the Bronx, died in the tenement fires of 1977. Ben was barely a child back then. He really struggled growing up all that time without a dad.”

“I see.”

She places the last few plates into the dishwasher, then turns to face him. “He honestly is a great guy.” This is the first time she’s been able to look him in the eye for the last few hours. As if this were the one solitary point she needed him to understand.

“I don’t doubt it.” Warren tries to make his nods as convincing as possible. “Can’t pick out wine for shit, though.”

Sera looks back at him in bemusement. “What are you talking about?”

“Swordfish with Chardonnay? I’m not Gordon Ramsay, and even I know it goes with rosé.” He recalls her choice of drink that rainy afternoon at his house back in Oregon.

She can’t contain her full-out laughter this time. “He doesn’t like rosé because of the tannins,” she responds matter-of-factly.

“Tannins?” Warren repeats with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes. He thinks it makes the food taste bitter.”

“Oh, in that case, I’ve got a fine vintage he should sample. It’s called Welch’s,” he teases.

Sera tries her best to stifle her laughter, but Warren can see the hints of a smile breaking out.

“Make yourself useful,” she says to him with a playful scowl. “Take out the recycling.” She thrusts a plastic bag toward him.

* * *

Ben accompanies Sera and Warren back outside to the entryway.

“Warren, it was a real pleasure to meet you. Make sure to say hi anytime you’re back in town,” Ben instructs him.

“Sure,” he replies, noncommittally.

“I hate to be the lame kid at the party,” Ben laments, “But I have rounds at the hospital early tomorrow morning, so I better get to bed.”

“Good night,” Warren says to him.

Ben gives a final handshake, firm and authoritative, to Warren.

“I’ll be right up,” Sera says to Ben, who nods back to her and enters his home again.

Sera hands a Tupperware to Warren. “It’s some leftover tiramisu. You can keep it in the fridge for a few more days. But not at the very bottom, that’s too cold.”

Warren wordlessly takes the container from her.

A particularly chilly burst of wind comes blowing in. Sera wraps her slender arms around herself.

Against his better judgment, Warren pursues the next line of questioning. He can’t leave without knowing. “Did you look for me?”

Sera looks away from him, down to the ground. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“I haven’t been with anybody else, you know. That’s a long time.”

“What did you want me to do? You think I was bar-hopping, trying to latch on to whichever eligible bachelor came my way?”

He presses, “Did you even try to find me?”

“Try to understand,” she pleads. “I had heard about the storm, death toll rising every single day. I couldn’t get in touch with James, so I was forced to face the fact that Rachel also...”

Her words get choked behind her rising sobs. He sees a lone tear roll down her cheek.

“But come to find out,” she continues, “She wasn’t even afforded that dignity.” She uses both hands to wipe away the wetness welling up under her eyes. “My only daughter was murdered by people she trusted. People she probably could’ve learned not to trust if I had just gotten my act together and been there for her as a mom.” The tears come in full force now, no chance of being restrained. She needs to place one hand over her mouth to avoid screaming out in that exact moment. “So yeah, I hit bottom after that. One day, I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and just waited in my bed. The maintenance guy came to do some inspection of my smoke alarms and found me. They pumped my stomach at the hospital and sent me to therapy.” She buries her face in both hands, taking time to weep openly.

Warren limps over to her, tucks his cane under one arm. He touches her on the arm, but as soon as contact is made, she reels back and brushes his hand away.

Shaking her head, she goes on, “I was the one who was lost. I needed to be found. Ben found me.” She looks back at Warren with a severely grave expression. “He saved me.”

He doesn’t want to meet her gaze anymore, sends his eyes darting away from her. “Do you love him?”

Her response is plain, direct. “I owe him.”

“Not what I asked.”

“But that’s what matters,” she states firmly. “I’m not sure why you came here, if you did it out of love. But love doesn’t always lead you to do the right thing.”

He scoffs, frustrated at her attack on his intentions. “And what, starting a family with him is the right thing?”

“Don’t go there,” she admonishes him.

“What are you trying to do?” He ignores her warning. “Replace Rachel?”

He’s knocked off balance as she wallops him with a solid smack across his cheek.

“You listen to me,” she says, breathing ragged. “All that you and I were to each other, and all that we’ll ever be, is two strangers who happened to pass each other while we were going through a seriously fucked up time in our lives. That’s it.”

The glower on her face makes her unrecognizable to him.

She concludes, “So I don’t owe you anything.”

He waits for the stinging to leave his cheek before speaking up again. “I’m sorry I upset you. Thanks for your hospitality.”

He turns around and makes the lonely march down the stairs back to his car. A blisteringly cold gust charges in, chilling both of them to their bones.


	2. Breathe You In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give extra special thanks to Veronica this time because through her beta reading of another work I'm writing, she helped me get way more comfortable writing material of a more sexual nature. Even if we're not quite yet at the full-on intercourse here, I feel her advice is allowing me to be more at ease in communicating these matters, and also communicating them in a natural and meaningful way.
> 
> Also, the character of Boss is not entirely an original one. Try to guess where you might recognize him from. An elderly dude with gray hair and mustache, operates a bar, wears a suit and sunglasses always. Ring a bell?
> 
> Also also, did I only put Eliot here in order to make you guys appreciate how less of a creep Warren is? Faye Wong said it best, "Maybe yes, maybe no."

[ **"We're both wild, and the night's young. And you're my drug. Breathe you in 'til my face is numb."** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_UywfuYTvc)

**Nov 2019**

“She’s late,” Warren points out.

“We said 11 o’clock _or so_ ,” Chloe counters.

“Well, my meeting is at 2. No ‘or so’ about that.”

“What is it with you? One appointment with a record label, and suddenly you’re too much of a big shot for brunch with your friends?”

“She’s probably just trying keep the air of suspense,” Max explains to him. “Keep you waiting so you’re more eager to finally see her.”

“Yeah,” Chloe affirms. “Don’t you know anything about women?”

Warren scoffs. “I clearly don’t know enough if I’m still bothering to be friends with you.”

“Can’t believe I shaved my legs to go out with this clown,” Chloe grumbles, taking another sip of her Bloody Mary afterward.

“Let’s just all calm down,” Max suggests. “Have you thought about what to order?” she asks him.

Warren examines the menu further. “Do they have chocolate chip pancakes?”

Chloe shakes her head, places face in palm.

* * *

**Earlier that year, summer**

The pounding at the front door to Chloe and Max’s former apartment mirrors the throbbing currently afflicting Warren’s head. He manages to sit up in the sofa with its heathered weave the color of Chablis wine. His vision is a little hazy, but he can make out the bottle of watermelon vodka standing at the foot of the couch. Chloe had given him instructions to clear out the refrigerator before the movers arrived, and last night Warren attempted to make good on that order. Still, he had barely managed to make it through a few gulps before passing out. He’d always been lousy at getting drunk.

As the knocking at the door continues, Warren hobbles over to his cane, which lies across the shaggy carpet a few feet away. Now with the support of the instrument underneath him, he makes his way to the door and opens it to be greeted by Toru.

“You’re Warren, right?” Toru takes a bite out of the onigiri in his right hand.

“Last I checked, yes,” Warren replies, still groggy.

Mouth still full of rice and salted salmon, Toru announces, “There’s a call for you.” He hands over the wireless phone in his other hand.

“Thanks.” Warren takes the phone, finds that it also smells of fish.

Toru swallows his food. “She sounds hot,” he proclaims.

“Great,” Warren plainly replies. “Glad you approve.”

Toru takes out his iPhone from the back pocket of his slacks, starts up another game of Candy Crush as he marches down the staircase back to the restaurant.

“Hello?” Warren talks into the receiver.

“Warren. Hi.” Speaking from the other line is Sera.

That snaps him out of his haze. “Hey.” He needs to swallow the lump in his throat before continuing. “How...? I mean, I’m glad you called.”

“I heard you mentioning to Ben last night you were staying at the restaurant, so I looked up their number.”

“It’s good to hear from you.” He could never help himself from being painfully earnest with her.

She can be heard giving a relieved sigh. “I wanted to apologize for last night. I overreacted. I know you never try to hurt anyone.”

“I’m sorry too. It’s not my place to second-guess you if you’re happy.” He draws a deep breath, half wanting to confirm this next point and half wishing he could ignore it. “You’re happy. Aren’t you?”

“Of course,” she responds.

That answer came damn quick, he thinks to himself. 

“Ben puts me at peace with myself,” she goes on.

Starting to feel lightheaded again, he needs to walk over to the couch and sit down.

She concludes, “I feel stable, safe with him. That’s how I’d like to spend my life.”

He shuts his eyes. She never once mentioned the word “love,” but maybe she’d been right all along. Maybe he was the one in the wrong for putting the love he feels ahead of all else. Surely it can’t be the right thing to follow this one emotion so blindly. She’s moved on. He lets the realization crush him for just one split second. That’s all he can allow. After the one split second, he has to go back to what he’s always been best at: pushing past his disappointment, letting go of his feelings.

“Warren?” she speaks up again. “Are you OK?”

“Yes,” he replies, rather weakly at first. “Yes, I’m fine.” A little more conviction behind that one.

“Listen, I don’t want us to leave with such a sour memory. Who knows when we’ll see each other again? Do you happen to be free today?”

“Actually, no.” He clears his throat, hoping it’ll shake off the tremor in his voice. “I have this meeting at 2. I haven’t mentioned before why I’m in town, right?”

“You didn’t come just to stalk me?” She asks sardonically. “I’m devastated!”

He gives a light chuckle, hoping it comes off as carefree and casual. “I’ve got this friend, a music producer in town. He offered to help me cut a demo.”

“That’s so exciting! I’m glad to hear you’re still pursuing music.”

“Yeah, it’s a great opportunity. Only problem is I need to find a way to pay for the studio time. I must’ve talked to about a dozen lenders, this last guy may be my only chance left.”

“Hmm...”

He isn’t sure if she’s simply affirming her understanding or maybe there’s deeper mental machinations going on within her.

“What bank is it?” She asks.

He’s unsure about her exact intentions, but he’s intrigued nonetheless. “Bank of the West.”

“The one on Mission Street?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Why do you ask?”

“You said 2 o’clock?”

“Yes.” He inquires again, “What do you have planned?”

“You go to your meeting. Give me about 10 minutes.”

“Give you...” He tilts his head in confusion. “Why?”

“See ya.”

She quickly hangs up the call. Nice to see her penchant for surprise is still present.

* * *

“Look, I agreed to this meeting as a favor for an old friend,” says Eliot Hampden from behind the studiously waxed cherrywood desk in his office. “But I can’t go back to my boss with this application. I’ll be laughed out the building.”

“I thought the boss was your dad?” Warren responds.

“All the more reason to apply the highest scrutiny to my duties as a loan officer,” Eliot states with a profound sense of self-importance.

“I realize my finances are what you could call ‘unconventional.’”

“A mess. That’s what I’d call them.”

“But I always make good in the end. I take some odd jobs, move some funds around. You don’t have to worry about me holding up my end.”

“You’re a bit long in the tooth to be starting a paper route, aren’t you?” Eliot comments dismissively.

“Just look again at the figures I prepared. If I can get a label to distribute the album, I only need to sell a modest number of units in order to make up the balance.”

“Warren, we’re not teenagers anymore.”

Says the guy who still keeps a Hawt Dawg Man figurine on his desk, Warren inwardly remarks.

“You’ll be better served if you get more serious about where you are in your life,” he recommends with tremendously unearned authority. “Take up a trade. Go back to school. Maybe...” And that’s when his train of thought becomes visibly derailed.

Warren turns in his seat to see what exactly had caught Eliot’s attention.

It turns out to be Sera. She’s adorned in a sultry cinnabar red strapless minidress, the hem of which hangs tantalizingly high up on the thigh in order to more prolifically expose her statuesque legs. The neckline plunges in a deep V, allowing for a generous view of her cleavage, which, Warren has to note, is much more ample than he remembers. Her makeup has been applied with surgical precision, each speck of cosmetic accentuating her features. Her brown and platinum blond hair has been diligently feathered and bobs gracefully as she takes the deliberate steps toward Eliot’s office.

If this were a 1980’s John Hughes style teen romance film, this would be the part where we get a slow-motion panning shot up our leading lady’s delectable physique while some classic rock track like “Hot Blooded” by Foreigner blares in the background.

_“Well, I’m hot blooded,_

_Check it and see!”_

No, my point is this is NOT an 80’s teen film.

Instead of Lou Gramm’s screechy vocals, Warren and Eliot only hear the sharp heels of Sera’s Manolo Blahnik red satin pumps clicking across the marble floor of the lobby.

Wearing a devilish grin to go along with her whole “goddess descending from on high” getup, Sera removes her DiorStellaire1 rose gold sunglasses and addresses the two, ever so coolly, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m not too late, am I?”

You can almost hear the gears in Eliot’s head start to churn again. He picks his jaw up off the floor long enough to give a “Um...” He loosens his Hugo Boss tie, having been made literally hot under the collar. “No.” He grabs at the glass of ice water sitting on his desk, takes a sip. “No, it’s fine. You’re with Warren?”

“Yes,” Sera affirms. “I’m his mother.”

Warren tries to make his expression of puzzlement not so obvious. Then again, an atomic bomb could’ve gone off inside his office, and Eliot most likely still wouldn’t have noticed.

“How have things been going here?” Sera asks as she takes her seat in the chair next to Warren. She crosses her legs with a flourish, making sure to place them at the perfect geometric angle to allow for best viewing.

What she had planned, Warren still couldn’t be sure, but for some reason, he feels compelled to play along. “It’s fine...” The next word feels hopelessly strange on Warren’s tongue, “Mom.”

“You know,” Eliot cuts in, “I don’t ever seem to recall Warren mentioning that his mother was so...” The only form of communication he can summon up is a nervous chortle.

“Well,” Sera leans toward him, placing her chest at the focus of his attention. “Doesn’t that just make a girl feel extra special?” she coos in a delightfully hammy husky tone.

Warren considers that this memory will most likely end up being an amusing anecdote for his drinking buddies or a recurring theme in his group therapy sessions. Maybe even both.

“Is there a reason we’re lucky enough to enjoy your presence today, Mrs. Graham?”

“Actually, I’m not married anymore,” Sera reports. “Mr. Graham passed away in the storm.”

“Oh?” Eliot’s eyes light up.

Oh Eliot, Warren silently ponders, you seriously don’t have a basement, do you?

“But it was always my late husband’s wish for his son to be able to pursue a career in music,” Sera recounts. “When I heard that Warren was coming here today to ask for a loan toward making a record, I just had to stop by and personally relay how much it would mean to us.”

Sera rises from her seat, walks around the desk to stand next to Eliot, the blush in his cheeks escalating with each centimeter she draws closer to him.

“It would mean a great deal to me,” she elaborates, all the while stroking her finger across the shoulder of his Ralph Lauren suit jacket. She then gives his arm a light squeeze. “Oh my,” she states with feigned delight, “Do you work out?”

“Just some P90X,” Eliot replies bashfully. “No big deal.”

“No, I do think it’s a very...” She takes a seat on his desk, letting her slender legs hang in front of him. “Big.” She brushes some errant strands of her flowing hair away from her shoulder. “Deal, that is.” That final mischievous wink she gives practically causes him to melt in his chair.

“Well...” Eliot scratches the back of his neck anxiously. “I guess since it’s so important...” He opens up the drawer at the side of his desk and pulls out a manila folder, nearly fumbling it in his shaky hands. “Just fill these out. The receptionist will get them sorted.” He places the folder on his desk in front of Warren, although it should be pointed out Eliot’s eyes never manage to peel away from Sera.

* * *

Sera and Warren exit the bank. The grin of self-satisfaction spreads across her face.

“You’re welcome,” she says to him as she hands over a check made out for $3000.

“Yeah, we’ll give you an executive producer credit,” is his sarcastic response.

She plucks a couple pieces of padding from her bra and stuffs them into her Christian Louboutin tote bag. Now her chest is back to how he recalled. “These things are way uncomfortable.”

He laughs to himself. “I didn’t think you needed them.”

“You take every scrap of advantage you can against men like that. A few more minutes alone with him, I could’ve gotten the code to the safe.”

“I’m pretty sure most banking these days is done digitally,” he points out. “You think they have piles of gold bars back there or something?” He tries his best to goad her. “This isn’t 1908.”

She playfully scowls at his jab over her age.

“Seriously, thanks,” he comments in earnest. “Let me know how I can repay you.”

“I’m so glad you brought that up.”

Warren’s not sure whether to be thrilled or trepidatious.

“Let’s take 50 bucks out of our funds as petty cash,” she proposes. “Buy me a drink. Or several. We’ll see where the night takes us.”

“It’s like, 4:00 in the afternoon.”

“Don’t be fun police all of a sudden,” she protests. “If you’re gonna be a rock star, you gotta party like one!”

“Uh...” he shrugs his shoulders. “Fine. You know a place around here?”

“The perfect place,” she says with a notable twinkle in her eye.

* * *

Sera bounds through the front door of St. Mary’s Pub. She’s making her way like a little kid gallivanting through the aisles of her favorite toy store.

Given the time of day, the crowd is understandably light. A guy with neatly cropped gray hair and matching mustache mans the bar. In his tidy three-piece suit the color of freshly fallen snow, he more closely resembles the sommelier at a steakhouse with two Michelin stars. He looks a little out of place among the vintage cherry red banquettes and antique hardwood floors of this humble neighborhood joint. He’s wiping some highball glasses but nearly jumps out of his stool when he lays eyes on Sera. Or it could be assumed he laid eyes on her, no way to confirm that, since he is, for whatever reason, wearing a pair of aviator shades indoors.

“Sera!” the barkeep exclaims jovially. “Great to see you again!”

“So glad to be back, Boss!” Sera saunters to the bar and leans over to hug Boss around his shoulders.

Warren can’t resist letting his stare linger on Sera’s heart-shaped ass. The fabric of her dress stretches taut over her firm skin. He notices no panty lines. Is she wearing a thong underneath, he wonders? Or maybe nothing at all? He manages to divert these thoughts before his thudding heart escapes out of his throat.

“Where the hell you been?” Boss asks.

“I moved down to the suburbs,” Sera explains.

“You? A Stepford Wife?” Boss says in disbelief.

“Stepford Wife _to be_ ,” she clarifies, holding up her left hand to show off her engagement ring. “But tonight I’m just here to have a good time. How about a pair of traffic lights to start for Warren and me?”

“You got it,” Boss confirms.

Warren walks up next to Sera, who’s smiling ear-to-ear in anticipation.

“What’s a traffic light?” Warren asks.

“You still have much to learn about the finer points in life, don’t you?”

Boss brings to the counter an assortment of booze in preparation for the cocktails. He runs through the ingredients for Warren, reciting the list as if he were announcing the arrivals of party guests at a 19th century ball: “Grenadine, banana liqueur, and crème de menthe.”

“That sounds like death,” Warren assesses.

“Death is sometimes the sweetest release,” Sera comments.

She watches in childlike glee as Boss assembles the shooters with deft hands. First he pours in the grenadine, then carefully uses a teaspoon to layer banana liqueur followed by the crème de menthe. Each liquid is clearly partitioned from the other, creating a drink that’s red at the bottom, yellow in the middle, and green at the top.

Sera and Warren grab their respective shot glasses.

“To the heist of a lifetime,” Sera announces with pride.

Warren bumps his glass with hers, and the two down their drinks in a single gulp, although it obviously goes much smoother for Sera. Warren, on the other hand, is left sputtering for air as the cocktail sears his throat.

“Something a little milder next?” Sera suggests. “Two lagers, Boss!”

With a firm nod, Boss retrieves some chilled pint glasses from the froster and starts pouring from the tap.

Sera catches sight of the quaint makeshift stage in the corner of the space. A lone microphone stand is perched nearby. “Boss, you still do karaoke here?”

“I offer,” Boss says as he fills up the second glass, “But sometimes the clientele isn’t lively enough to want to participate.” He motions to the group of dour-faced individuals lining the stools. Most of them have a “drink to forget” type of expression plastered on their countenance.

“Give me the track list, then,” Sera requests.

Boss takes a thick binder from the cabinet underneath the bar and places it before Sera. She leafs through a few pages while munching on pretzels from the communal bowl. She offers the bowl to Warren.

Warren regards the snack with a grimace. “Everybody’s hands have been in there.”

“Your loss, bubble boy.” She skims through a few more selections, then comes to her choice. “That’s perfect. Track 248.”

“Right away,” Boss confirms.

“What are you doing?” Warren asks her.

“YOU are going to inject some more life into this place,” Sera explains.

“I’m what?”

“You’re recording an album soon. You need all the practice you can get.”

“But I don’t do karaoke. This is hardly my scene.”

“Dude, you’re not nearly established enough to have a _scene_.”

Warren looks over the binder to find out exactly what track 248 is. “That one?”

“What’s the matter? Don’t know the words?”

“I do, mostly, but this is from before I was even born.”

“Hey! Me too.”

“OK, it was from before my parents were born, how’s that?”

“Just get your ass up there,” she commands.

With a protracted groan, Warren makes his way to the stage, climbs up and retrieves the microphone, just in time for the sprightly intro to start playing.

_“It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well._

_You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle.”_

Even though he starts his performance in a begrudging manner, Sera is sure to immediately break out in spirited applause, following that up with an impassioned “Woo!”

_“And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell.”_

Before they were even reunited, Warren felt himself being driven just by the thought of Sera. Getting up out of the wheelchair, chasing his dreams in music, even coming to California in the first place, all of it was spurred on just by the mere _thought_ of her. But now that she stood before him in the flesh, in the lovely, sensual flesh, he felt as though he’d have the impetus to do anything, even if it were just she alone in the audience.

_“‘C’est la vie,’ say the old folks._

_‘It goes to show you never can tell.’”_

Not content to sit on the sidelines, Sera plants one stilettoed foot on her stool, using that as a boost to climb on top of the bar counter. She starts swaying her comely hips to the tempo. Her hair swishes in a wild, yet elegant pattern as she shimmies her shoulders and swivels her waist. Soon enough, she’s broken out into a twist that would make Mia Wallace weep in joy. Warren may not be a trained assassin, but he’s mesmerized by the woman before him just as Vincent Vega was.

As Warren continues to sing about the young couple’s modest apartment, their record collection, the road trip to New Orleans in a “souped up jitney,” and the ceremony in the Big Easy, Sera even throws in a few instances of the mashed potato and the swim. By now the rest of the crowd may have gotten invested in the performance, but Warren and Sera hardly notice. For these two, the space of the song is just for them to delve further into each other. For now there’s just a boy and a girl, he watching her and she watching him.

* * *

A pudgy Japanese salaryman, so thoroughly sloshed that he’s now wearing his necktie around his forehead, is taking his own turn crooning a karaoke track.

_“My mama told me,_

_She said, ‘Son, please beware.’”_

“Nuh uh,” Sera objects, “No way, pal.”

“Oh come on, let me at least have that,” Warren argues back.

_“‘There’s this thing called love, and it’s everywhere.’”_

“I’m sorry, but truth is truth. Over the clothes is NOT second base.”

“So you’re saying, what, it was a platonic tit rub?”

“In the glorious history of all the tits that have ever been rubbed, that was the most platonic there’s ever been.”

“You’re crazy.” He shakes his head as he takes another swallow of lager, his third by now.

“Newsflash: I’m a little crazy,” she proclaims with no small measure of pride. “But I feel like I’m being rude, just talking about myself and my tits all night.”

“Not the worst topic of conversation.”

“How’s your family doing? I think you said at dinner last night that they all were safe from the storm?”

“Yeah, I’m glad to be able to say that. My brother was playing amateur football in Canada. And my parents...” He laughs in bemusement. “It’s funny. Mom went to Corvallis to get my dad to sign the divorce papers. That same week of the storm, of all the weeks she could’ve been gone, she chose that one.”

“Holy shit,” Sera says with wide-open eyes.

“Yeah, I guess they took it as some kind of sign they should try again. Like they both got an epic second chance, you know?”

“They must’ve fucked like animals that weekend.”

“Oh god, no!” Warren actually can’t help but gag a little.

“What? What’s wrong with thinking of your parents as sexual entities?”

“Pretty much every word in that sentence is wrong.”

“How do you think you got here, wiseass?”

“I’d like to believe I kinda just split off as a body of cells away from my mom, all the while my dad happened to be watching from the corner of the room.”

“I hate to break it to you, but your parents had sweaty, dirty sex. And I bet 20 dollars she sucked his dick.”

“Seriously, please stop. Don’t you ever think about anything besides sex?”

“Oh really? Me?” She gives him a playful slap on the arm. “Says the guy who’s been gawking at my ass the whole night?”

He nearly coughs up his present sip of beer. “Wh-what?” he stammers as he reaches for a napkin.

“Don’t play boy scout with me now. You think a woman can’t tell when she’s being checked out?”

He gives a laugh of defeat as he hangs his head. “OK, yes, I’ve maybe been staring at times. Sorry if it’s made you uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m glad for it. I work hard for my ass. I haven’t had a milkshake in about 20 years. Does McDonald’s still sell milkshakes? See, I wouldn’t even know.”

“Well, it’s paying off, just in case you needed some affirmation.”

“I do appreciate that.” She beams a radiant smile of gratitude at him. “But just so you can get the full picture, I’ll tell you I’ve got a birthmark, about the size of my pinky nail, in the shape of a chili pepper, on my left cheek.”

All other cognitive functions seem to freeze still right at that moment. He’s now focusing the entirety of his mental efforts into imagining that birthmark.

“Right around here.” She lifts her butt ever so slightly off her stool and points at the center of the left glute.

He tilts his head quizzically. “You fucking with me?”

She gives a noncommittal shrug as she puckers her lips around the maraschino cherry that came with her Manhattan.

“Fine, don’t tell me. The illusion’s better than reality anyway.”

She licks her lips, savoring the mix of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters. “I’m having a really good time.”

“Yeah?”

“I missed this.” She sighs in contentment. “Being the hot girl at the bar.”

Under normal circumstances, he probably wouldn’t have been so loose-lipped with the sentiment that had been hanging in his mind right then. But fuck it, his inhibitions had been drowned away since the last beer. “You’re always the most beautiful. Anywhere you go, anything you do.” He doesn’t look back at her as he speaks, largely expecting that she’ll bolt away by the time he turns to her.

_“I wouldn’t mind it_

_If I knew she really loved me too.”_

Imagine his surprise when she speaks up again.

“Hey,” she calls out.

_“But I’d hate to think that I’m in love alone_

_And nothing that I can do.”_

He fixes his glance to her.

She’s turned in her seat to face him straight on. “Do you want to kiss me?”

_“It’s too late_

_To turn back now.”_

The scene stands in contrast to when she spoke those exact same words to him almost 10 years ago. Back then she had to be the one to close the distance between them, to bring bodies and mouths together.

_“I believe, I believe, I believe I’m falling in love.”_

But now she simply sits before him with her hands folded neatly on her lap. She’s reserved, docile, almost submissive, as if she’s expecting that he be the one to bridge the gap.

And it’d be easy too. She’s right there for the taking. He can reach out and claim those candy apple red lips for himself. The rest of her could follow.

And yet...

“Actually,” he finally announces, “I don’t want your cooties.” He sticks out his tongue in jest at her.

She smiles back. In relief. Well, mostly in relief. “Smart boy.”

The salaryman wraps up his performance, earning a round of applause from the audience.

Sera polishes off the last of her cocktail. “I’m about to turn back into a pumpkin. Can you settle the bill?”

“Sure.” He calls out to Boss, “What do I owe you?”

“It’s taken care of,” Boss graciously offers.

“For real?” Warren cocks his eyebrow.

“In commemoration of your impending nuptials.”

“Wait.” Sera is quick to step in. “We’re--”

“We’re so excited for you to be getting the invitation soon,” Warren finishes.

“Young love is so often wasted on the young,” Boss bemoans, “But I’m glad to see that’s not the case with you.”

Warren shoots a quick wink in her direction. Now it’s her turn to be left slack-jawed at him.

She waits until they exit the bar and step out on the sidewalk before letting her thoughts be known. “You’re insane.” She tries to make it sound like she’s admonishing him, but the wide grin she wears belies that sentiment.

“You’re the same,” is his sly remark as he hails a cab for her.

A taxi soon pulls up to the curb. He opens up the door for her, though she doesn’t step in just yet.

“Thank you, Warren.”

“For what?”

She takes a moment to shuffle her feet uneasily beneath her, to consider how she wants to phrase this. “Making me feel like a star.”

“You are,” he’s quick to affirm. “Don’t forget that. Even when I’m gone.”

She gives him a slow, pensive nod. After patting him gently on the chest, she enters the cab, Warren closing the door behind her.

He stays in his spot on the sidewalk, watching the taxi until it rounds the corner and out of sight. He wonders why every time he sees her feels like it will be the last.

* * *

For some reason, there’s an extra lightness in her step as Sera climbs the steps leading up to the entrance of the home she shares with Ben. Well, she does know the reason, just doesn’t want to quite admit it. Upon opening the front door, she hears the sound of water running in the kitchen. Following the noise, she sees Ben washing some dishes in the sink.

He greets her with a plenty warm smile. “Hey, hun.”

But her expression turns aghast. “Oh no,” she whispers. “Dinner. Tonight.”

He was supposed to make his pasta alfredo that night. She completely forgot.

“Oh my god.” She pulls her phone from her tote for the first time that evening and sees several missed calls from him throughout the night. “Shit. Shit shit shit!” she scolds herself.

“Whoa, no worries about it.” He smoothly strides over to her and gives her a tender stroke across her back. “I heated up one of those frozen meals from my bachelor days in the microwave. It’s fine,” he reassures her in his usual dulcet tone.

“Still. I feel horrible,” she confides.

“Don’t.” He cups her chin under his hand, lifts her gaze up to his, offers up a consoling grin.

She tries to summon up her spirit in order to return the gesture.

“Where did you go anyway?” he finally asks.

This causes her breath to catch in her throat. With any of the men she’d been with before, had she admitted to being out with another guy, she could’ve expected to leave with a fresh set of bruises. But even more frightening than that prospect now is the idea of having to lie to this person who places so much trust in her.

“I was with Warren,” she reveals at last. She wrings her hands, anxiously awaiting Ben’s reaction.

“Ah,” is his immediate response. It appears as though his actual opinion on the matter remains quite neutral. “Did you have a good time?”

She feels her mouth going dry, lets her eyes wander a moment. “Yes,” she answers, “We just had a few drinks.”

Ben puts forth a few brief nods. “He’s a fine young man,” he declares. “I trust he treated you well?”

She releases a sigh of relief. “He did.”

“Very good. That’s what’s important.”

He makes his way back to the sink and rinses off the last few items. “Well, I’ve got my flight out early tomorrow morning.” He walks over to the staircase, getting ready to go to the bedroom. “I better turn in now. See you in bed soon?”

“Of course,” she quickly confirms.

He gives her a light peck on the cheek and starts climbing up.

A notification tone rings out from Sera’s phone. She checks it to see a text from Warren.

It reads, “You’re always my star.” Following the message is a selfie of the two she had taken using his phone earlier that evening. She stands in front of him, leaning back against his chest while giving an effortlessly stunning smile. His expression is a little more restrained, but his joy at being close to her is still evident.

She finds it remarkable how profoundly compatible they look in that one frozen moment. In that one frozen moment, they so naturally fit together.

But she also knows life is more than just one frozen moment. In all those other moments is when life can go wrong. She knows she has to make a choice. What kind of woman should she be? The woman in the photo? Or the woman in the house now?


	3. Suffocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, the rating for the story has had to be elevated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miguel isn't entirely an original character. Consider a young Hispanic man with a penchant for music, has a pet dog named Dante, and must deal with a loquacious and overbearing abuelita. Where do you recognize him from?
> 
> Silvia, on the other hand, is based on an IRL lady who operates a taco stand near my office.
> 
> The girl at the park is based on Amy Andrews, who also performed a cover of "Wonderful World": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w48VNBr5g7o
> 
> Now that we're getting into what Borat would call "sexy time" for our leads, part of my creative process involved thinking about how I would cast these roles as real-life actors and actresses. Because you see, I don't care how impressive graphics get (and let's face it, LiS is still not Crysis), it's honestly still a bit unsettling for me when animated models do the business. It doesn't matter if it's Mass Effect or Witcher or Heavy Rain, I'm not gonna be turned on by video game characters getting it on. I just couldn't really get into it if I were imagining the Warren/Sera scene in video game graphics. So who should be our leading man and leading lady?
> 
> For Warren, it's pretty clear to me that Ross Lynch would do great. I think how he plays Harvey Kinkle in Chilling Adventures of Sabrina would extend so well into Warren's character here. Maybe just ask him to cut the hair a bit, since my version of Warren here is opting for a more mature style.
> 
> Sera, though, gave me a spot of trouble. We need an performer in the particular age range who can both sing and act. I wasn't able to come up with one single woman who could fit all aspects completely, but the best conclusion I arrived at was Andrea Corr. In all honesty, I think her sister Sharon is the most beautiful Corr sibling, and Sharon even has an overall appearance that resembles Sera's a bit more closely. What would give Andrea the nod is that she has had some more extensive acting credits to her name, and also being the lead singer of the group, she's got what I consider to be the better voice. Plus, she shares a name with Sera's actual voice actress, Andrea Fletcher. If we just lightened up Mrs. Corr's hair color (actually similar to how Sharon wears it), I think we'd be in business. I've no clue if she can do an American accent, though. Like I said, no one actress is a perfect fit.

[ **"You keep me in with those hips while my teeth sink into those lips. While your body's giving me life, and you suffocate in my kiss."** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_UywfuYTvc)

**Nov 2019**

“What exactly are these ‘creep’ things?” Warren asks.

“It’s pronounced ‘crepe,’ sir,” the well-intentioned waiter explains to him.

“They’re basically like thin pancakes,” Max elaborates.

“OK. That sounds good,” Warren confirms. “Do you have maple syrup?”

“We serve it with a caramel reduction,” the waiter reports.

“Great, I’ll have that,” Warren confirms.

The waiter takes up the menus from the three guests.

Chloe doesn’t miss this chance to jab at Warren some more. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for a side of crayons and a coloring book.”

Warren steals a page from her playbook, blows a kiss to Chloe and flashes her the bird right after.

“Watch the copyright infringement,” Chloe warns him.

“Chloe, just go and get us some more profiteroles.” Max shoos the antagonizing girl away from the table.

“Whatever you say, MOM.” Chloe departs from her seat in a huff.

“I think she liked me better when I was in the wheelchair,” Warren comments.

“Maybe even in the coma,” Max adds.

* * *

**Earlier that year, summer**

“I’ve always liked that dress on you,” Warren confesses.

He looks to the passenger seat of his decrepit secondhand Ford Torino. In these humble confines sits Sera, wearing the same cream-colored sundress with the floral pattern from all those years ago.

She smiles, but opts to look out the window as they drive through San Francisco’s Mission District. She doesn’t want him to notice the blush setting into her cheeks.

“I was surprised I still had it, to be honest,” she explains.

“The things that matter end up sticking with you.”

With that, he pulls his car to the curb of Different Fur Studios. They exit the vehicle and walk toward the front entrance.

“Tell Ben I said thanks for letting you come out again today,” Warren requests. He holds open the crimson red door for her.

“Oh, no worries.” She steps through and into the main hall. “He left for a conference in Amsterdam a couple days ago. He’s keynote speaker.”

“Good for him. You know what’s legal in Amsterdam, right?”

“He would never!” is her immediate response.

“What? Smoke pot?”

“Is that what you were referring to?” she replies skeptically, eyebrow raised.

“Of course. What, you thought I meant whores?”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“Your mind’s always in the gutter,” he playfully admonishes her.

She slaps him in the arm. Not quite as playful as he had been.

The pair enter Studio A to see a young man with a round face, wide dark brown eyes the size of tea saucers, and a floppy mop of black hair atop his head. Despite being around Warren’s age, his features still bear an adorably boyish quality.

He’s speaking into his phone. “Yes, _abuelita_ , I’m sorry Dante chewed up your shoes.”

A frantic jumble of unintelligible syllables blasts out from the other end of the line.

Miguel responds, “No, just because she doesn’t want to eat your tamales doesn’t mean she’s trying to kill you!”

More frenzied talking.

Miguel notices Warren and Sera, so he cuts in, “OK grandma, the people I’m supposed to meet are here. I’ve gotta work now. _Ciao ciao_.”

As he hangs up his phone, he massages his temples and mutters, “ _Ay mi familia_.” But his disposition quickly changes when he greets his old friend. “Warren, _mi amigo_!” Miguel rushes over to Warren and snatches him up in a mighty bro-hug.

Warren chuckles as Miguel releases his grip. “Good to see you again too, man.” He gestures to Sera. “Miguel, this is Sera. She’s the one who made all this possible.”

“Ah, our lovely benefactor!” Miguel exclaims.

“Glad to help you boys out,” Sera says with a notable measure of pride. “Thanks for inviting me to see behind the scenes. I’ve always been interested in how a record comes together.”

“Well, I had all the band members come in earlier today to record the instrumentals,” Miguel recaps. “Now all we need is the sound check for your vocals.”

“Wait,” Sera recoils, eyes wide in surprise, “What--” she stammers, “What are you talking about?”

“You’re not the only one with surprises,” Warren remarks with mischief. He’s taking real joy in seeing Sera be the one who’s stunned for a change.

“When I talked to Warren about this duet track that would go great on the demo, he told me he had the perfect partner in mind,” Miguel explains.

“Did he now?” Sera shoots her most severe icy stare at Warren, who for his part only continues to snicker in silence. After a deep breath to calm her nerves, she speaks up again, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you both, but I’m simply not a singer. I just...” She laughs to herself, presumably at how absurd the idea must sound. “I can’t.”

Warren steps up to Sera, fixing his intent gaze on hers. “All I know is, you’re the one who walked into that bank looking like the mistress character from a Lifetime Channel movie. I wouldn’t want to see that effort go to waste.”

“Tell you what,” Miguel propositions to her, “Take a look at the lyrics. Listen to the arrangement that we’ve got so far. Then you tell me if it’s something you’d like to do.”

Sera shakes her head in bemusement. It still seems to her such a preposterous concept.

Warren tries to offer one last stroke of encouragement, “What do you got to lose?”

* * *

Sera slips the headphones over her ears and steps up to the microphone, but Warren sees that her hands are still trembling a bit. She balls them up into fists to steady the shakes. The haunting piano intro (simply a rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in D) begins to play.

Standing in front of his own microphone opposite her, Warren subtly mouths to her, “It’s OK.”

This compels her to draw a deep breath into her lungs, then release it at a steady, deliberate pace. She gives a resolute nod and puts force behind her voice for the opening lines.

_“Am I out of my head?_

_Am I out of my mind?”_

He notices that she sings this as if she’s commiserating her loss of sense and sanity, mourning these decisions that no longer adhere to reason. But at the same time, he can intuit a measure of exhilaration in her apparent loss of control over self, as though she knows this is the path to thrills that she wouldn’t ever get to experience in the course of “normal” life.

_“If you only knew the bad things I like.”_

For as much risk as it holds, that abandonment of sense and sanity can definitely be construed as a “bad” thing. So much of it can go wrong.

_“Don’t think_

_That I can explain it.”_

But still, how can anyone be expected to turn away from so many possibilities for that kind of unrestricted bliss and freedom?

_“What can I say?_

_It’s complicated.”_

Sometimes there’s just no better way to explain the hopeless confusion that afflicts your mind. It’s just “complicated.” Throw your hands up and resign it all to fate, is that the best you can do?

_“Don’t matter what you say._

_Don’t matter what you do.”_

As Warren comes in with his part, he’s apparently much firmer in his conviction.

_“I only wanna do bad things to you.”_

Even if you have love for someone, is it always the right thing to love them? Sometimes loving someone and asking them to accept your love puts them in danger for having their whole life upended. He has to admit he understands the perils inherent in giving that love to someone. Even so, at his basest level, he can’t deny his yearning to give her that love, to do those “bad things” to her.

_“So good,_

_You can’t explain it.”_

At least, he hopes she would delight in receiving him the same way he would in being able to give himself over.

_“What can I say?_

_It’s complicated.”_

* * *

“Is that even possible?” Warren muses aloud.

He and Sera are huddled together on the bench in front of the Yamaha baby grand piano. Miguel demanded privacy while he worked on the final mix, so he had locked himself away in the control room while Warren and Sera confined themselves to the recording room. Warren and Sera are streaming (500) Days of Summer on his phone, specifically the one scene where Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel are, let’s call it “acrobatically coupling” in the shower.

“Like, how would you arrange yourselves to pull it off?” he considers the concept even more deeply.

“She needs to have especially strong delts,” she answers, rather smoothly and matter-of-factly. She doesn’t even break her attention on the screen as she discusses it, as if she were merely talking about buying eggs from the store or folding her laundry.

He takes a moment to gaze at her in a mix of semi-wonderment in addition to semi-apprehension. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not. Ibiza was a crazy place back then.”

“It’s ready!” Miguel swings open the door. He proudly holds up two jewel cases each containing a copy disc of the demo album. He hands them to Sera and Warren, the collaborators in arms beaming in pride at how their effort has paid off.

“Can’t thank you enough,” Warren says.

“Hey, I just push the buttons,” Miguel humbly replies, “You guys made the magic happen.”

“I’ll admit I didn’t have the worst time in the world,” Sera remarks with a sly grin.

“You wanna cut a solo track sometime soon?” Miguel asks her. “Leave this bum behind?” He juts a thumb at Warren, who retaliates with a gentle shove.

“I’ll be a happy one-hit wonder,” Sera concludes.

The rumbling from Warren’s stomach interjects itself among the merriment. “Skipped lunch,” he says apologetically.

“I think Silvia is still out in her taco stand,” Miguel states.

“At the park?” Warren checks the time on his phone. Nearly 10 PM. “Doesn’t seem like enough time.”

“Put some pep in your step and hurry over,” Miguel beckons.

“Right, clearly not a problem for me,” Warren responds sardonically as he holds up his cane.

“You’re wasting plenty of time just gabbing,” Sera cuts in. “I’m starving too, let’s go.”

She almost tugs Warren off balance as she leads him out of the studio by the arm.

* * *

Silvia Lopez, proprietor of La Estacion Del Taco, has just started packing up her equipment for the day. She’s disturbed in her duties as she hears a voice cutting through the still, dark night of Mission Dolores Park.

“Wait!” Sera screams out, “Hold on!”

Sera sprints up to the jovially rotund lady. Before speaking up again, Sera takes in some heaving breaths. “Hi...” She forces enough air back into her lungs in order to string together more words. “Are you still open? Warren and I...” Sera motions back to Warren, who’s just now limping his way into the glow of the street lamps.

Silvia’s expression brightens up as she notices Warren. “My little _Warrencito_!” She bounds up to him and ensnares him in a sturdy hug with her hefty arms.

Still in Silvia’s embrace, Warren looks over at Sera who seems thoroughly amused over how many people seem to want to hug him tonight.

“You haven’t been back in a while, no?” Silvia comments.

“I’m moving around quite a bit these days,” Warren explains. “But for sure I couldn’t leave town without some tacos from you.”

“That’s so wonderful for me to hear.” Silvia gestures toward Sera now. “And who’s this lovely _senorita_ with you tonight? You cheating on me?” She teases him.

“No, of course not _, mamacita_.” He puts a reassuring hand on Silvia’s shoulder. “This is Sera, and she’s already spoken for. By a doctor, no less. I can’t compete with that.”

“Well when are you and I gonna get married?” Silvia presses.

“As soon as I can buy us that beach villa in Acapulco,” he jests. “For tonight, do you still have some food left?”

“Just a few of the al pastor. Is that all right?”

“Sounds perfect. And any chance we can get some Jarritos?”

“You got it. Still orange soda for you?”

“Two, please.”

Silvia reaches into her cooler and retrieves two frosty bottles from among the ice. Warren clutches both bottles by the neck and walks back to Sera, who apparently still keeps that bottle opener on her keychain. She pops the caps off both drinks. The couple spends a few well-deserved moments savoring the syrupy refreshment of their drinks.

As Silvia fires up her gas burner to heat up the food, Warren notices off in the distance some soothing chords being daintily strummed from a humble acoustic guitar. He checks in the direction of the music and finds the diminutive figure of a young woman hunched over her instrument. Her flowing dark hair hangs messily around her face. She’s dressed in a thin tank top and jean shorts, which doesn’t do much to stave off the encroaching chill of the ocean breeze. A heavily dented and scratched suitcase sits nearby. Beside her is a cardboard sign upon which she’s scribbled a note reading “Need bus fare back to LA.”

She sings out in a tone that’s quiet, meek, unobtrusive to the existing harmony of the night.

_“But I do know one and one makes two.”_

Warren makes his way over to the girl and takes his wallet from his back pocket. He counts the last of the bills in his possession.

_“And if this one could be with you,”_

It just so happens to be two 20’s and a 10. Should cover a trip to Los Angeles.

_“What a wonderful world this would be.”_

As the final notes ring out, he holds the money up to the girl. Her face livens up almost in an instant. A single act of charity has shaken up everything about how she perceives the world and people around her.

She gingerly receives the offering from Warren. She’s only able to give back a modest smirk in return.

With the hope that this simple gesture can be enough to carry her through, at least for tonight, Warren makes his way back to Sera.

Sera smiles back at him, so genuinely touched by his gesture, almost as if it had been she herself who was rescued from being stranded in the night.

Warren wonders why it can’t always be like this. If only he had forever in the contentment he found within her smile, in her knowing eyes.

* * *

“You were so cute,” Sera recalls that fateful rainy afternoon, in the study of Warren’s house in Arcadia Bay. “‘I was just thinking we’d get some dinner,’” she repeats his words to her from then.

“Well, look where we are now.” He takes a hearty bite of his taco, the savory pork and succulent pico de gallo dancing on his taste buds.

“Touché.”

“I think about that day a lot too,” he confesses.

She sips a swallow of her soda, wipes her mouth with a napkin. “What about it?”

“What if I had just...” He reflects on what she asked of him, whether he was ready for what came after that initial feeling of desire and longing, whether he was actually willing to do the work of nurturing that feeling and letting it grow into actual love. “I dunno, just told you what you wanted to hear?” He taps his finger anxiously at the lip of his soda bottle. “Things would be so different now.”

The woman sighs hugely. “Yeah, you’re right,” she affirms. “Things would be really different. But I’ll tell you it wouldn’t have been the right thing.”

“How are you so sure about that?”

“Well you see, you and I, we would’ve fucked. No doubt about it. And I also don’t doubt it would’ve been fantastic.” She scoots along the length of the bench to get even closer to him.

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand. He licks his lips, even though he feels his mouth get dry.

“Because you see,” she goes on, “I was as unlaid as a pile of bricks. And you, despite having all the sexual presence of Barney the Dinosaur...”

“Um, thanks?”

“I can tell you’re very eager and generous. And sure, at the beginning, you would’ve cum right away.”

He shrugs. Not much point in denying that.

“But no worries,” she assures, “I would just do my tongue thing, and you’d get hard again immediately.”

“You have a tongue thing?” he asks, curiosity piqued to the max.

“And then, we’d go maybe three or four more times. That’s how I see it.”

“Just to be clear, you’re telling me that’s the _less_ desirable outcome?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you why. Because had just told me what I wanted to hear, you would’ve been like any of the other men I knew before you. You would’ve simply been lying to get what you want.” She’s sure to lock eyes with him this time, making certain the next point hits him clearly. “And I would’ve had to forget you, just as I have so many men before. Instead, you chose the truth over yourself. You realize how special that makes you?”

“Yeah, I’m the only one not having sex, makes me real special,” he grumbles.

“Warren...” She casts a firm look his way.

He hangs his head, as he has to concede she’s right. “OK. Fine.”

“This way,” she says, gazing at him expectantly, “I’ll remember you always.”

He must admit, that’s not an entirely bad consolation prize.

Before he’s able to ponder on that for too much longer, there comes a flash of lightning, and the clap of thunder isn’t too far behind. And inevitably, the drizzle of rain comes pouring down soon thereafter.

“Figures,” Warren comments dryly.

The two of them hoof it back to his car as quickly as they can, although the rain has already made its presence felt by the time they retreat to the safety of the vehicle’s cabin.

* * *

Deciding that they aren’t yet ready for the night to be over, Warren drives them back to the Chow-Foo Restaurant, and he even manages to find a parking spot that isn’t too far from the entrance. Despite some scolding from Mrs. Sasakibara for trudging water through the lobby, Warren and Sera make it up the narrow stairwell and back into the safe confines of Unit 4.

Sera needed a change of clothes, but sadly Chloe and Max had already hauled their wardrobes away to LA in Chloe’s pickup truck. Warren hadn’t packed in preparation for this occasion either, as any of the pants or shorts he had were too large in the waist to fit Sera’s slim frame. Eventually she decides on just one of his button-down shirts, which at least hung low enough to cover her bare bottom.

She retreats to the bedroom to change out of her soaked sundress. However, she neglects to shut the door completely, leaving it just barely ajar. Despite the heeding of the angelic Warren on his shoulder, he steals a peek through the gap to quickly see her sliding her white lace cheeky panties down from around her hips. And what do you know? That birthmark actually is there after all.

When they finish getting dressed (he in his vintage Chrono Trigger T-shirt and accompanying Fruit Ninja boxers) he informs her that she can lay out her clothes across the space heater in the corner of the living room. Max and Chloe’s abode didn’t come with a dryer.

He opens the freezer in search of that bottle of watermelon vodka, just in case she was wanting a nightcap, but this time he also notices a pint of chunky monkey. He removes the container and then checks the fridge. He breaks out into a smile as he sees a plain carton of milk.

He holds up both items to her.

She only responds with a timid “Well...” She diverts her glance from him.

“I promise I’ll never stop adoring your ass,” he states with more firm conviction than he’s shown in speaking about any other topic in recent times.

She can’t contain the giddy grin growing across her face.

Finding the blender tucked in in a random kitchen cabinet, he dumps out the milk into the blender jar, then scoops out some of the ice cream and plops it into the container afterward. He requests that Sera insert the plug into a nearby outlet, but not before realizing too late that the power switch is already toggled to the “on” position.

“Wait!” he calls out.

Not in time, as the motor springs to life, sending the messy mixture bursting up into the air and dousing him in the sticky, sweet liquid.

She can’t contain her vigorous guffawing while handing him a roll of paper towels. He takes off his T-shirt, Crono’s cartoon face having been smeared with ice cream and milk. He shakes his head and laughs in resignation as he tries to wipe off the mess from his face. As her bout of schadenfreude subsides, she steps up to him, dangerously within arm’s reach (dangerous for the both of them). She extends her pinky and dabs at a spot of milkshake that still remains splattered on his cheek. She brings the finger to her tongue, smiling in delight afterward.

Damn, is she beautiful when she smiles like that.

That’s his final thought before he leans in and reunites their mouths. The same sensations from nearly a decade ago floods his senses once again. Once again, he’s struck by the velvety yet electric feel of her lips, the scent of her skin (pomegranate mixed with a citrus note that tickles his sinuses), the soothing warmth of her breath.

She reaches up, cradles her left arm around the back of his neck, clutches his shoulder with her other hand. He plants his palms to her shapely hips, fingertips tantalizingly close to sinking into the flesh of her ass.

Suddenly, she pulls back from him, her breathing coming and going in ragged fits. She braces both hands against his shoulders in a feeble attempt to maintain the distance between them. “Let’s...” She at last manages one deep, composed breath. “Let’s not get crazy.”

Even though she tries to turn away, he reflexively grips her by the arm. She doesn’t bother to put up much resistance as he takes an unhesitant step forward, wiping out the divide in an instant.

“We can get a little crazy,” he proposes, and the kiss is revived with unabated intensity.

As he feels himself getting consumed in each and every point of contact with her, he feels all semblance of self being suffocated in his longing to touch her in every possible way.

In spite of the piercing ache wracking his bad leg, he hoists her body up under both hands and sets her on top of the kitchen counter. He then uses his hands to feverishly grab at the placket of the button-down she’s wearing. With a single decisive tug, he pulls the shirt open, sending the buttons careening away. Her chest now hopelessly exposed, he grasps at her supple breasts with blind abandon. No chance she’ll deny this as being second base. She throws her head back in a deep groan when he starts to flick his tongue around her firm nipples. He’s positively rapacious as he switches between a rolling lilt with just the tip of his tongue and outright devouring her breast with the full extent of his lips and mouth.

Unlike the time in his house in front of the piano in the study, he had now found her breasts no problem. So she redirects him this time by bringing his hand to her effusively wet underside. All the while, he doesn’t dare break his concentration on her delectable tits. Getting him started by inducing him to make a swirling motion with his fingertips, he falls into rhythm soon enough. He alternates this action with an increasingly rapid up and down rubbing, putting special emphasis on her clit. Now with an attack mounting on both fronts, she consigns herself to a protracted, defenseless scream, and a surge bursts forth beneath her, pouring across the Formica and pooling onto the tile floor.

Sorry, Max and Chloe, there goes your security deposit.

Now unwilling to tolerate being the only one who’s being driven wild, she shoves him at both shoulders and hops down from the counter. With her hungering glare affixed relentlessly to him, she sternly leads him by the wrist over the couch and practically throws him into a seated position.

Picking up on her cue, he scoots his underwear down past his ankles and feet while she slips the useless shirt off her shoulders and flings it aside. She straddles him across the lap and reaches down to wrap her hand around him. A sharp gasp is released as she feels him meet the sweltering wetness below. Letting out a quaking sigh as she lowers herself, she doesn’t yield so much as a single centimeter during the descent. Upon settling at the base, she starts bucking her hips, rocking along at a measured, deliberate pace at first.

All throughout, he tries to match his breathing to her machinations. Initially he can get sufficient air with every move she makes. But as she picks up the tempo, his breathing inevitably draws shorter and shorter, and dizziness floods into his head. While his other senses go numb, he never loses focus on her drenched pussy squeezing at his dick.

As her fingernails dig mercilessly into his back, she cries out with a series of screams that come deep from within her chest, each one escalating in volume. Everything culminates in her back arching at a seemingly inhuman angle. Every fiber in her body shudders as her motions slow to a halt. She takes a few moments to draw several heaving breaths while her fingers wander through the brown locks of his hair.

Upon regaining her faculties, she dismounts from atop his lap and lies back on the couch, her head leaning against the armrest. She places a hand on her chest, almost like she’s trying to prevent her heart from coming loose. Her breathing shifts down a few gears, from manic panting back to steady, regular inhale/exhale pattern.

He wipes the beading sweat from across his brow.

He gingerly lifts her legs to rest them on his shoulders. At first, she gapes wide-eyed at him, nearly aghast at the prospect of subjecting her still plenty tender pussy to another round of immense intensity so soon. But she breaks out into a relieved giggle as he opts to plant kisses (at once both affectionate and mischievous) around her ankles. He spreads his range down to her calves, letting her skin be warmed by his husky breath. She twitches ever so slightly at the tingling that settles into her skin. It’s like sparks are radiating from his lips. He delights in the carefree laughter escaping from her throat.

When he reaches her thighs, he splays her statuesque legs open before him and pushes back inside. The suddenness seems to take her by surprise as her eyes dart open, almost as if she’s offended that he would thrust himself so recklessly. But it doesn’t take long for her to settle into the groove of his movements. She beckons him with pleading moans in each passing stroke.

Even though his stamina is being worn down to the nub, he grits his teeth and tries to persist. It’s a massive relief to him as he hears her whisper into his ear, “Cum inside me.”

As her body writhes underneath his and she calls out in delicate whimpers, he brings his full length in and out of her a few final times. And then he spills out into her, a few helpless grunts the only form of communication left available to him.

After the spasms underneath him finally subside, he draws away from her and sits on the other end of the sofa. She continues to lie there, staring blankly up at the ceiling and chest heaving up and down. Winded and lightheaded, he feels the crippling urge to lie down on the floor with his limbs splayed out wide. The last image he notices before his eyelids get weighed down with sleep is the sight of her crawling down from the couch and curling herself up next to his side, her head resting smoothly in the crook of his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much sincere and special thanks to Veronica who, despite totally not having to, did a wonderous job in beta reading the climactic scene.


	4. Scars On My Body, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys forget? It's called "BAD Things."

**["I want you forever even when we're not together. Scars on my body, so I can take you wherever."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_UywfuYTvc) **

As he stirs from his sleep, Warren’s eyes flutter open, but he has to almost immediately shut them as rays of early morning sunlight pours in from the blind-less window. He can eventually manage a squint while sitting up on the dingy shag carpet. First catching sight of his pair of Fruit Ninja boxers lying within arm’s reach, he grabs hold of the undergarment and slips it back over his lower body. Surveying the scene a bit further, he can see his cane leaning up against the side of the refrigerator, just as he had left it last night while getting the ice cream and milk.

There’s a sharp pain shooting along the length of his right leg, just as always was the case when he tried walking too long without his cane. He was able to ignore it last night on account of the myriad “distractions” presented to him. The memory affords him a wide, dopey grin on his face even as he has to push through the discomfort on the way back to his tool. When he’s able to put the support back under him, he sighs in relief.

He hears the lock to the bathroom door click open. The prospect of seeing Sera again only expands his smile. She opens the door and steps out, wearing her sundress again.

He greets her with an earnest, “Good morning.” In fact, “good” was an understatement. Right now is the best he’s felt about any morning, about any time in his life really.

For her part, she can only offer back a meek grin. This, however, quickly dissipates as she lowers her gaze from his and she starts walking over to her Serpenti Cabochon shoulder bag sitting on the dining table.

Warren tilts his head in puzzlement over her demeanor. “Is everything OK?”

She removes a compact from her bag and starts dabbing some makeup to her face.

“Are you going somewhere?” he inquires of her.

She doesn’t look back at him right away. She stands still for a brief moment, takes a huge sigh. The compact is flipped shut again and tossed back into the bag. It lands among the other contents with a clatter, which sounds especially loud in the oppressive silence which has suddenly fallen over the apartment.

She turns to him, brushes some errant strands of her brown/platinum hair back behind her ears. She attempts to revive that smile from before, but he can tell the effort is paining her. “Why don’t you tell me?”

She finally looks at him directly. He notices a dullness has set into her gray eyes.

“Where do you think we’re going? Where is all this heading?” she asks.

He finds himself gripping the handle of his cane extra tight as he looks upon her quizzically. “Um...” He swallows that lump in his throat before continuing. “Look, I want us to be together. No doubt.” He makes his way over to her with firm intention. Making sure to lift her gaze up to meet his, he tries to instill in his voice a sturdy sense of resolve and purpose. “My mom moved back in with my dad, and she said if I ever needed a place to live, I could have the insurance money from the house in Arcadia Bay.”

“Warren...” she says, barely audible.

“It doesn’t have to be back in Oregon. We could get something here.”

“Please...” she manages a little bit of extra volume behind that one.

“I apologize ahead of time if it’s not gonna be as big as where you currently are, but--”

“I’m pregnant!”

He’s struck mute in an instant. Those two words killed not just the voice he was using to express his hopes and dreams, but it also obliterated those very hopes and dreams.

She buries her face in her hands, proceeds to weep openly. He feels the force of her sobs could cause her whole body to come crumbling down.

He needs to reach deep inside his lungs to find the air needed to speak this single next word. “Ben?”

She raises her head just high enough to give a short nod. “I was going to tell him when he got back from his trip.”

His mouth is severely dry, but he forces these words out anyway, despite the fact that they burn like acid on his lips and tongue. “You didn’t say anything.”

She shakes her head in resignation. “Like that would’ve stopped you.”

“You--,” He can’t outright reject that idea, but he feels it beside the point. “Didn’t I deserve to know?” his voice rises.

“I didn’t figure you were so curious,” she comments snidely, “You seemed perfectly happy to be inside me regardless.”

“So it’s my fault?”

“I told you!” she screams. “I FUCKING told you not to come looking for me!”

“Well, I’m sorry,” he replies, every word laced with resentment. “I didn’t realize I’d cause so much trouble by caring about you.”

“If you cared about me...” she forces the words past her crippling sobs. “You would’ve let me fall off that cliff,” she laments. “At least then, I wouldn’t have to always, ALWAYS be hurting everyone.”

She roughly wipes away the wetness from her face. After snatching up her purse, she marches intently toward the door.

“Wait,” he sternly calls out to her, right before she reaches for the doorknob.

“What?” She turns back to him with a scowl. “What do you want now? You want to yell at me some more? Hit me?”

He takes a few shaky, tentative steps toward her.

“Go ahead,” she implores. “It’ll be just like it always is.”

He draws closer, leans in to reach behind her, then pushes open the door.

“Leave,” he says, rather stoically. He knows he should hate her, but he lacks the will for that. “You’re not worth it.”

She takes a deep breath, and she looks at him with a measure of satisfaction. “Good. Finally you see it.”

In a single swift motion, she turns around and starts on her way down the stairs. He remains frozen in place at the apartment’s threshold until the dull noise of her flat soles on the creaky hardwood floor fades away completely.

He considers where he’s gotten, what he’s gained from all the love he feels for this one woman. He comes to the conclusion it’s been nothing. Nothing but bad things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much shorter than previous chapters, I admit, but it's never been about an arbitrary word count goal for me. Each chapter should simply encapsulate a meaningful and momentous movement of the plot. I hope this one qualifies for you guys.


	5. Scars On My Body, part 2

[ **"I want you forever even when we're not together. Scars on my body, I can look at you whenever."** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_UywfuYTvc)

**Day 5 without him**

“I’m sorry, this is just...” Ben Shaibel rubs his bloodshot eyes. His voice is weighed down by equal measures of jetlag and shock. “It’s a lot of news to be getting all at once.”

Sera takes a deep breath, swipes the loose strands of hair behind her ears. “I can leave if you want.”

“Well...” he crosses his arms in front of his chest, furrows his brow in concentration.

“I’ll just go.”

“Wait.”

He takes a few pensive steps toward her. When he raises his hand, she noticeably flinches. She expects the worst. She knows she should expect the worst.

And yet, that’s not what comes. Instead, he gingerly presses his palm to her cheek.

“All of us are heroes in some stories,” he explains, “Villains in other stories. I know I’m the bad guy in my fair share of stories.”

She reaches up and puts her hand on top of his, in thorough appreciation. The joy he finds in her touch is more than enough affirmation that he’s making the right decision.

“But I don’t want that for you,” he goes on, “Not for our baby, either.” He moves his hand down to her stomach, and he applies the same gentle pressure there. “Both of you are, without a doubt, the best things that have ever happened to me.”

She sniffles, immensely touched to be receiving an absolution that’s far from deserved.

“I have your assurance you won’t see him again?” he asks.

“I won’t,” she’s quick to confirm. “I told him to leave.”

He nods back. “It’s always hard to look beyond the past,” he concedes. “But I’m willing to for the sake of our best future.”

She lunges forth and places her lips to his. The kiss imbues in her a harmonic sense of safety, of stability. It’s exactly what she’s said she wants.

* * *

**Day 7 without him**

Sera and Ben are greeted in the examination room by Dr. Satoshi Uchida, head of obstetrics and gynecology.

“Old friend,” Uchida says as he engages Ben in a spirited handshake. “You’re finally going to be joining the rest of us poor saps in fatherhood!”

“I guess it’s long overdue,” Ben admits.

“And Sera,” Uchida addresses her with notable affection. “What a privilege it is to meet the one who’s finally making him into an honest man.”

“Believe me.” Sera looks upon Ben in adoration. “He’s made me honest too.”

“Ben has taken great care of my three kids as they’ve grown up,” Uchida states. “The least I can do is do is give my absolute best to help his own pride and joy come into this world.”

“I feel very encouraged to hear that,” Sera replies with a satisfied smile. “Still, I do have to admit my worries about being, let’s just say, not the youngest mother.”

“I’ll be perfectly straightforward,” Uchida remarks. “You are at an age where pregnancy must be approached with a great deal of care and attention.” His expression turns intently serious. “You’re going to have to want this.”

Sera tries putting the full force of her intentions into the nod she gives back to Uchida.

Uchida continues, “Hopefully we’ll clear this set of obstacles without too much incidence, and then biggest challenge you’ll be facing is who has to wake up for the 3 AM feedings.”

Sera giggles, at last feeling a bit more at ease. “Ben’s already said he’ll do that.” She places a soft hand on Ben’s sturdy shoulder.

“What have I gotten myself into?” Ben quips.

With a hearty grin, Uchida proposes they begin, “Let’s get started by getting your weight.”

“Oh dear.” Sera allows herself a more relaxed laugh now. “It’s only gonna get worse from here, isn’t it?”

* * *

**Day 9 without him**

Video call with Ben’s mother. She’s beaming with pride at the prospect of finally receiving a grandchild, plans to buy practically the baby’s entire wardrobe.

* * *

**Day 10 without him**

Vitamins in the morning.

Prenatal yoga lessons in the afternoon.

* * *

**Day 15 without him**

Vitamins in the morning.

Prenatal swimming lessons in the afternoon.

* * *

**Day 16 without him**

Make lunch for Ben before he leaves for work. Always ham and cheese on Mondays and Wednesdays.

* * *

**Day 17 without him**

Make lunch for Ben before he leaves for work. Always BLT on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

* * *

**Day 20 without him**

Shop online for cribs.

* * *

**Day 25 without him**

Ben’s mother announces she’s coming to visit.

Especially bad heartburn throughout the day.

* * *

**Day 26 without him**

Look at color palettes for the nursery.

* * *

**Day 29 without him**

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Ben asks. “I can surely get one of the interns to go to the store for you.”

Sera laughs lightly. “As much as I would appreciate the abuse of power on my behalf, I can handle this. I’m pregnant, not crippled.”

* * *

She had resolved to make a turkey dinner for when her future mother-in-law will be dropping by. Sera makes her way through Whole Foods, dropping into her cart brussels sprouts, oil, potatoes, butter, green beans, cheese, onions, seasoning salt. When it comes time to pick out the star of the meal, she looks through the freezer but doesn’t quite find an ideal candidate.

She addresses a store employee passing by, “Excuse me, do you have any turkeys smaller than this?”

“Sorry,” the employee responds, “The supply truck is late this month, so we’re kinda limited for the time being. I apologize.”

“I see.” She needs to get one today so that there’s enough time for the defrost. But she doesn’t feel like going to another store. “Oh well, there’ll just be a bunch of sandwiches afterward.”

“Not a bad problem to have,” the employee points out with a grin. “Would you like some help getting one into your cart?”

“No, it’s fine.”

She wedges her hands underneath one of the hulking frozen masses. She tries first lifting in a gentle, smooth motion, as all the safety manuals would demonstrate. She can’t quite get the turkey past the lip of the freezer, so she gives one last quick jerk with her hips. She clears the top of the container and makes the last few strenuous steps to her cart. The package falls into the basket with a metallic clang. She needs a few heaving breaths before the stinging in her abdomen can be quelled.

Definitely time to check out, she decides. Have a seat soon.

She pushes the cart to the register and places her items on the conveyer belt.

When it comes time to place the turkey, the cashier speaks up, “Do you want help with that?”

“I can do it.”

Once again, Sera strains mightily to move the turkey and audibly grunts as she drops it onto the belt with a resonant thud. Once again, she takes a few more labored breaths. This time, the shooting pain abates somewhat but doesn’t go away completely. She forces a reassuring smile to the cashier.

While the items are rung up, Sera notices a book of baby names on the shelf near some candy bars and breath mints. She takes it into her hands and starts glancing through.

Wallace.

Wendy.

Waylon.

Winona.

War--

“Ma’am!” the cashier cries out in alarm. “You’re bleeding!”

* * *

“There will likely be some discharge for the next few days,” Dr. Uchida advises. “I’d recommend wearing a pad.” His voice bears an obvious pained cracking. “Obviously, in the case of uncontrollable bleeding, please call right away.”

Sera gives a couple mute nods.

“Would you like me to call Ben?” Uchida offers.

Sera shakes her head. “He should hear it from me.” She dabs at her eyes with the tissue.

“I understand.” Before exiting the exam room, Uchida adds, “It doesn’t mean you can’t try again.”

* * *

“Are you hungry?” Ben asks as he and Sera walk through the front entrance to their home.

Her gaze still directed to the floor, she shakes her head, the motion nearly imperceptible. “I think I’ll just take a shower,” she announces, almost inaudible.

She gingerly makes her way up the stairwell, stops halfway.

“I’m sorry,” she says to him, but she’s still unable to look back at him. “I know you bought this house hoping to fill it with children running all around.”

Without a word but with the firmest of conviction, Ben marches up the stairs and takes Sera’s shuddering figure into his arms. “I want my life to be filled with you,” he speaks with tenderness and sincerity, in his usual reliably dulcet tone. “As long as it’s you.”

She nestles her head against his broad chest. The scent of sandalwood from his aftershave and the measured, deliberate beating of his heart lulls her toward a soothing sensation of safety and stability. It’s exactly what she’s said she wants.

* * *

As Sera turns on the faucet, she contemplates all her failures as a mother. She has never once given her children the warmth, safety, and comfort they deserved from her. This newest one, whoever he or she would have turned out to be, perhaps got off easy. This one got away before being able to be disappointed or abandoned or hurt even a single time. At the very least, she can feel thankful for that.

She steps under the stream of water, and as the jets hit her bare body, her mind wanders back to the words from Uchida: ‘You’re going to have to want this.”

Did she?


	6. Insane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For Good" by Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel (Wicked Studio Sessions version) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZ0pXUb5jVU
> 
> "Wonderful World" cover by Amy Andrews, orig. Sam Cooke https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w48VNBr5g7o

[ **"OK, yeah, I'm insane, but you the same."** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_UywfuYTvc)

**Day 36 without him**

“I’ve been thinking,” Sera announces, “About doing some volunteer work at the children’s hospital.” She takes a dainty bite of her toast with orange marmalade. “What do you think?”

Ben nods firmly in encouragement. “I believe it could do some real good for you. Those kids will be lucky to enjoy your presence.”

She grants him a gentle grin, appreciative of his steadfast support in all she does.

He checks his watch. “I better get going.”

Dabbing at the corners of his mouth with the napkin, he rises from his seat. She follows along to see him off.

“You’re sure it’s OK for me to be going back to work?” he checks one final time.

“I’m fine. Really,” she assures him. “And I’ve also decided...” She hands him the brown paper bag containing his usual ham and cheese sandwich. It’s Wednesday after all. “I wanna start planning for the ceremony as well,” she states with firm resolve.

He regards the news with sincere gratitude, thankful for her initiative in continuing with their future in spite of all the pronounced roadblocks they’ve faced thus far. He beams a proud smile at her. “We’ll make it one you can be proud of,” he affirms for her.

The two embrace, nurturing between them this fragile little hope they’ve learned to cultivate.

* * *

**Day 40 without him**

Pack up baby clothes in boxes for donation.

* * *

**Day 41 without him**

Call some venues to ask about availability. Ben had said he wanted a spring wedding.

* * *

**Day 47 without him**

For a few days this past week, Sera had been visiting with a 14-year-old named Sadie. During tryouts for the International Cheer Union’s Junior team, she had fractured her right tibia and fibula after a horrendous fall from a botched pike basket toss. Today, Sera is giving Sadie some makeup advice in an effort to soothe her anxieties over her boyfriend, who Sadie is convinced has been spending this period of her convalescence getting too cozy with the captain of her school’s girls soccer team.

“For your skin tone,” Sera explains as she blends the blush on Sadie’s cheek, “You want something that’s more pigmented. I prefer matte myself.”

After making the finishing touches, Sera beckons Sadie to check the results in her compact mirror.

“Wow!” Sadie exclaims with wide-open eyes. “That looks so amazing!”

Sera laughs to herself. Kids can be so easily impressed sometimes.

“Remember,” Sera instructs, “We don’t wear it to impress anyone else.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sadie bemoans. “You’re getting married to a doctor. Smart. Sophisticated. And mature, I bet. I’ve gotta deal with this zit-faced bozo who thinks Columbus Day is for celebrating the guy who directed the Home Alone movies.”

“In all honesty, isn’t that Chris Columbus the one more worthy of celebration?”

Sadie giggles. “I guess you’re right.” The girl inhales a deep breath, sighs hugely. “Does it ever get any easier?”

Sera’s gaze wanders for a moment as she muses on the wayward path she herself has walked, the checkered past she’s authored for herself in the game of love. “I don’t think so,” she admits. “Both of you can get older, possibly a little wiser too. But all the time that passes just leaves more and more room for those feelings to grow even more complicated.”

“So you’re saying we’re all doomed?”

Sera looks back at Sadie, more intently this time. “I’m saying you have to fight for it to last. So be honest about who you want to fight for.”

* * *

**Day 50 without him**

Which design for the invitations? Floral theme or nautical theme?

Is this really what matters?

* * *

**Day 55 without him**

Sera has been giving piano lessons to Abigail, a 10-year-old undergoing chemotherapy for her leukemia. Today, the two of them sit before the Yamaha baby grand piano in the common room. Abigail was surprisingly far along in her skills already, so Sera felt it appropriate to challenge her with an especially advanced song. Abigail was willing to try, but only after successfully exhorting Sera to join her in the vocals for this duet.

_“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?”_

Abigail’s physique is gaunt on account of the radiation which is supposed to “cure” her. And in spite of her eyes having been left sunken and sallow, those eyes still exude a twinkle as she artfully navigates her fingers across the piano keys.

_“I do believe I have been changed for the better.”_

Sera can’t help but marvel at the force of life still persevering in those eyes, even in this place where many must come to face death.

_“And because I knew you,”_

“Careful with the next key change,” Sera advises.

_“Because I knew you,”_

Abigail nails it. She can’t contain the wide grin spreading across her face.

_“Because I knew you,_

_I have been changed”_

Sera affectionately wraps her arms around Abigail’s bony shoulders.

_“For good.”_

“You should be so proud of yourself,” Sera proclaims. “I was never this good at your age.”

“But your voice is so beautiful!” Abigail replies with an equal measure of enthusiasm. “You could totally be on the radio. A real star!”

Sera looks down at the black and white keys. A gentle smile of reminiscence sneaks its way onto her face. “Maybe once upon a time.”

* * *

**Day 61 without him**

The venue doesn’t have availability for the dates she wants. There’s still a few more places to check.

Is there really much of a point?

* * *

**Day 70 without him**

Sera is with Sam, a 12-year-old who had been struck by a drunk driver while riding his bike. The doctors had instructed that familiar external stimuli could help him wake from the coma, so today Sera reads to him from his favorite book series.

“You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin--to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours--closer than you keep it yourself.”

She takes a moment to look over at his persistently still body, his eyes clamped shut. She tries to put extra intention behind her words, in the hopes that they can reach him through the still air, through the insistent beeping of the monitors, through the rhythmic whooshing of the breathing machine, through the fog of his consciousness.

“But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo.”

* * *

**Day 72 without him**

Having just met with the caterer to settle on the menu for the reception, Sera is taking a coffee break at Alamo Square Park.

She checks her buzzing phone to see a call from the seamstress, probably checking in on the measurements for her dress. But Sera finds she doesn’t want to answer. Instead, her focus lingers on a father helping his young son balance on his bicycle. The boy pedals diligently with a look of intensity on his face.

* * *

**Day 80 without him**

“And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.”

Sera stops in her reading as the door to Sam’s room clicks open. In steps Sam’s mother, a petite, frail woman whose sense of personal weariness is being made more and more painfully evident with each passing day. She’s been trying for too long to keep her resolve intact through sheer force of will.

The times when Sera would read to him are some of the few breaks Sam’s mother allows herself from the vigil she keeps. Sera isn’t quite sure what Sam’s mother does in the interim. It most looks like she’s just been crying.

“Thanks for today,” Sam’s mother says.

“No problem.” Sera shuts the paperback and places it onto the nightstand next to his bed.

Sam’s mother walks up to his bedside and gently strokes the auburn locks of his hair. “You have kids, Sera?”

Sera looks down, uneasily shuffles her cream-colored flats. “No.”

“The days pass so slowly,” Sam’s mother remarks. “But the years just fly by. You never feel like you’ve had enough time.”

Sera nods. She can relate to the sentiment, but she’s not in a place to explain all the messy circumstances.

“Whoever it is you care for most,” Sam’s mother continues, “You HAVE to spend time with them. Find the ones you care for most,” she implores, “And give your time to them. That’s all that matters.”

* * *

**Day 81 without him**

Sera sprinkles the parmesan on top of the Caesar salad she’s prepared for herself and Ben. After tossing together all the ingredients with the tongs, she brings the large wooden bowl over to the dining table and places equal portions next to the salmon filets that he had grilled.

“Thanks, babe.” He places his hand across the small of her back and runs his fingers across ever so gently.

She smiles cordially back at him.

“By the way,” he announces as he places the napkin across his lap, “Dr. Lowenthal from radiology mentioned that he and his wife have some extra tickets to the theater this weekend. They were wondering if we’d like to join them.”

“Sure.” She gives a simple nod. “Sounds fine.”

“Great.”

He starts to pour that bottle of white burgundy into his glass. What a simple action to undertake. It happens at countless meals at countless tables all around the world, all the time. And yet, this time this simple action stirs up a round of questioning within Sera.

“Be honest about who you want to fight for.”

Who does she want to fight for? Honestly?

“You could totally be on the radio. A real star!”

Who’s been the one to make her feel most like that star?

“Find the ones you care for most...And give your time to them.”

Who should be the one most deserving of her time?

“Ben,” Sera weakly cries out.

“Hm?” He looks back at her quizzically.

She blinks, the motion fully bringing her senses back into the scene of her present reality. A lone teardrop rolls down her cheek, as she also comes to the full realization of what she must do.

“I like rosé,” she confesses at last.

“You do?”

She slips the ring off her finger, places it on top of the hardwood top of the table. It sounds with a resonant thud.

* * *

**Nov 2019**

“How’s your food?” Max asks

“Mmhmm,” Warren moans in delight, mouth still stuffed with the scrumptious treat. “So good. Can’t believe I’ve gone my whole life without crepes.”

By this time, the live musical act had begun her performance. The girl has her dark hair tied up in a bun and wears a svelte black cocktail dress. She strums soothing chords from her humble acoustic guitar.

_“Don’t know much about history.”_

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t ruined for you just because they wouldn’t draw a smiley face with whipped cream,” Chloe quips.

_“Don’t know much biology.”_

“You know,” Warren replies as he takes a sip of water, “I’m not even gonna let you bother me this time.”

“Actually, your mood might be about to get even better,” Chloe announces. “Your date’s here.”

In all honesty, Warren had heard the clicking of stilettoes on the sandstone floor behind him. He just hadn’t bothered to pay too much mind to the girl, whoever she might be.

“Hey,” Chloe addresses the mystery lady.

Warren takes another hearty bite of his brunch. He still doesn’t look as he hears the chair next to him being slid out from under the table. But then he catches the scent of pomegranate and a citrus note that tickles his sinuses.

Not even taking the brief moment to swallow, he immediately turns his glance over.

And there she is.

Her same brown and platinum hair falls elegantly across her shoulders. She gazes expectantly at him with those same gray eyes.

He grabs at his glass of water and takes a hasty swig in order to wash down his food. He manages to force everything down but is still left sputtering for a moment after.

She offers a playful giggle and places her soft hand atop his. He’s initially shocked at the renewal of contact after all this time, but once that wears off, he takes notice of the missing ring on her finger.

He notices a hint of trepidation in her expression. What was it she had said all those years ago?

“You have to apologize endlessly. Make amends all the time.”

Is that what she’s trying to do?

“Forgive things that you never imagined you could look past.”

Is that something he’s capable of now?

“Well,” Max interjects, “I’d recommend ordering quickly. Warren has an appointment that he just can’t possibly miss.”

_“But I do know that I love you,”_

“Actually...” Warren speaks up with a suddenness that surprises even himself.

_“And I know that if you love me too,”_

“I can reschedule,” he states, with all the resolution he can muster. Yeah. It turns out he is capable.

_“What a wonderful world this could be.”_

She starts to cry. As the tears flood her face, he realizes how beautiful she looks now. Damn is she beautiful when she cries. Because for the first time he’s ever been able to see, she’s crying tears of joy.

**Day 1 with her**


End file.
